


Vainglory, and Other Battlefields No One Told You About

by stapling_pages



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Tom Riddle, Different Dark Lord, Harry Potter is a Sweetheart, Inheritance, M/M, Marriage Law AU, No character bashing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possibility of Mpreg, Romance, Slash, Tom Riddle for wine mom of the year, Tom Riddle is a Disney Princess, Top Harry Potter, Underage - Freeform, long-haired Tom Riddle, you know you're making Bad Choices when Tom Riddle is the mom friend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-11-07 17:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17964584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stapling_pages/pseuds/stapling_pages
Summary: In a world slightly to the left, the Dark Lord rises on the final night of the Triwizard Tournament, and his grandson becomes a spoil of war.OR: through convoluted circumstances, Harry finds himself engaged to someone he's never met. No one is particularly happy about it, but goddamn it! Harry isn't going to fuck this up!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So . . . idk, man, idk.
> 
> Background info that might be useful to know:  
> A) Harry's second year was normal and boring, with the Chamber of Secrets remaining tightly closed.  
> B) Severus Snape is still an asshole, just like in canon! :)  
> C) ????  
> D) Profit - wait, no

It was no secret that Harry Potter had trouble sleeping. It had always been this way, and only the long years spent living with the Dursleys kept him from waking his relatives every time he had a nightmare. Harry had learned his lessons on living a quiet life well and it was a rare occurrence for him to wake up with so much as a whisper on his lips. ( _Freaks_ , his aunt had taught him, _weren’t meant to be heard or seen_.) But there were times when a dream would unsettle him enough that Harry wasn’t able to stifle his screams.

He stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, gulping down air and straining his ears, hoping desperately that he hadn’t woken his uncle. It took several long, agonizing minutes for his heart rate to slow down. A bit later, once he was sure his uncle hadn’t heard him, Harry let his tired muscles relax. He rolled onto his side and buried his face in his pillow.

His nightmares were getting worse. At first Harry had tried to avoid sleeping, hoping that if he was exhausted enough he wouldn’t dream, but that just made them worse on the nights he did sleep. Harry had mentioned that he’d been having trouble sleeping in his last letter to his friends, but other than Hermione bringing up post-traumatic stress and the usual warnings, no one had said anything. It wasn’t as if he wanted sympathy or pity, Harry just wanted to sleep. Maybe if he actually asked they’d send him something . . .

Harry climbed out of bed to sit at the small desk shoved under his window. He slid his glasses on with one hand and grabbed a sheet of parchment and a self-inking quill with the other before setting to work.

Sunlight slowly crept over the dark roofs of Privet Drive while Harry wrote his letter. It woke songbirds and lit up the manicured lawns and gardens lining the street. Sighing, he threw his quill down and roughly cared his fingers through his hair. He sounded like an idiot, but at his point he didn’t really care. Nearly every night, his subconscious dragged his through the events of the Third Task. Harry was forced to watch as Cedric Diggory, a fellow Hogwarts student, died under the hellish green light of the Killing Curse, and Wormtail completed the potion to restore his master.

Carefully, he folded up the letter and sealed it. He pushed back his chair, stood up, and headed over Hedwig’s perch. She watched with sharp, golden eyes as he tied the letter to her leg.

“Take this to Hermione and Ron, alright, girl?”

Hedwig hooted softly. She hopped onto his shoulder as he went to open the window. With another soft hoot and an affectionate nip on his ear, the snowy owl took flight in the warm summer air. Harry watched her fly away until she disappeared from view.

Quickly, he changed out of his pajamas and into worn jeans and a thin t-shirt, both several sizes too big. He was shoving his feet into ratty trainers when he heard the faint sound of the shower running. Uncle Vernon was awake. Harry hurried out of his room, down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he grabbed an apple, and a bottle of water before rushing out the backdoor.

Uncle Vernon was unusually bad tempered this week and had been for some time. Grunnings had sent out notices stating that the company would be downsizing in early May, and as the weeks went by, it became more and more apparent that no one was safe. Just the other day Mr. Howard, the head of marketing and Mr. Dursley’s long-time friend, had been summarily dismissed. Mr. Dursley was rather worried. He also had no problem with taking his ire out on Harry at every opportunity, deserved or otherwise.

The young wizard had taken to avoiding his uncle as often as he could manage it. Once his daily chores were finished, Harry spent most of the day wandering the neighborhood only returning minutes before Dudley so that his aunt and uncle couldn’t force him to spend the night on the front porch. When he couldn’t leave the house, he either hid out in the backyard behind the small shed or stayed in his room.

Harry dropped to the ground and started to eat his meager breakfast. Though neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon made much of a fuss about what, or how much, he ate anymore—largely because of the talk Professor Lupin, Mr. Weasley, and Mad-Eye Moody had with his uncle—Harry found that some habits were hard to break. Harry was used to the summers being a time of very little food, and he couldn’t bring himself to eat much at all. He was sure that Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t be happy when— _if_ she found out.

The end of July was approaching fast and he still hadn’t heard anything substantial from Ron or Hermione. Every other week Harry received a letter from his friends telling him to lay low and be careful, and nothing else. The lack of information was getting to him. No matter what he said or asked, the content of their letters remained the same: _lay low, keep your head down, and **be careful**_. How could they expect him to stay safe if he didn’t know what he was supposed to avoid? Had there been raids? Was the Ministry doing anything to protect people?

What was Marvolo Gaunt up to?

Finishing his apple, he tossed it into the compost pile and leaned against the shed. That was what he really wanted to know. Now that Gaunt had a body, what was he doing? He had suffered years of being able to do nothing but plan, and now he had a chance to turn those plans into action. There would be another war, one Harry would have no choice but to fight in. No one of either side would let him, the Boy-Who-Lived, get out of that. Despite the growing heat, the fourteen-year-old felt cold with dread.

Harry hadn’t been able to save Cedric. How could anyone think that he had any chance? Dumbledore seemed content to let him stumble around without any sort of guidance. No adults had offered to help him prepare to face the dark lord. The only people he could rely on to help him were his friends, and now they were starting to take their cues from the Headmaster, too.

Behind him, the kitchen door flew open with a loud clang causing him to jump in surprise, reaching for his wand.

“Boy!” said Aunt Petunia. “Get in here. We’ve cleaning to do.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said, pushing himself to his feet. The woman glared as he strode quickly across the dying grass, passed her and into the house. He paused just inside, turning his questioning gaze to her. A cleaning rag and a bottle of detergent were shoved into his hands.

“Wipe down the counters then start on the dishes.”

He must have done something to irritate his aunt, since she kept piling more chores on him and made him redo them multiple times. By the time she was satisfied, it was nearly time for Uncle Vernon to return home, and Harry’s hands were cramping and red from chemicals. She hovered over his shoulder, watching with sharp, suspicious eyes as he washed his hands and made a sandwich. Grabbing another bottle of water out of the fridge, Harry hurried upstairs. The soft purr of an engine drifted through the opened parlor window. Harry shut his bedroom door just as his uncle’s car pulled into the driveway.

Carelessly, he dropped his plate onto his desk and collapsed into the seat. He ignored the muffled voices of his relatives as he watched the neighbors trickle home from work a car at a time. Number Five arrived first, followed by Number Three and then Number Ten. As Number Nine cut their engine, Harry realize that he had picked apart his dinner instead of eating it. With a heavy, irritated sigh Harry pushed the plate of food away and turned his attention away from the window as he let his head drop into his hands.

At this rate, Harry was going to go insane. He had nothing to do beyond the few chores he was given since he’d long since finished his summer homework during his early attempts to avoid sleep. He’d reread his schoolbooks, reorganized his trunk multiple times, taken numerous long walks, and once, he’d had to talk himself out of flagging down the Knight Bus.

Dusk settled slowly on Privet Drive. Street lamps flared to life with a soft orange glow as crickets chirped in the background. Several streets over a dog barked.

A small speck of white appeared in the sky followed by a dark blot, gradually growing bigger until they took the shape of two owls. Hedwig was back, and tied to one of her claws was a letter. Harry backed away from his window to give her space to fly in. The snowy owl fluttered passed him to land daintily on her perch. A menacing black owl swooped in before he could close the window and landed on his desk. It screeched, glaring, and stuck out its leg. Tied to its leg was a thick envelope stamped with Gringotts’ crest.

Harry hurried to take the letter, and offered the owl a treat. It hissed and threw itself from his window.

“Okay then . . .”

Hedwig hooted impatiently. He untied her letter and feed her an owl treat.

Harry flipped the missive over between his fingers, frowning at the loopy script that didn’t belong to Hermione and definitely wasn’t Ron’s. It looked like the Headmaster’s handwriting but Harry couldn’t think of a reason why he would be writing to him. Curious and a bit worried, he broke the wax seal.

 

_Dear H-,_

_I hope you are well when this letter reaches you, despite the circumstances. Things are well here, though your friend Snuffles is still feeling a bit under the weather. Your young friends have asked that I pass on their well-wishes, as have Mr. and Mrs. W-, and your defense tutor._

_On to business, I’m afraid. Concerned parties have told me of your request. While I understand that your dreams have been troubling you and that you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t feel it absolutely necessary, I cannot allow anyone to send you the requested potion. In light of particular events, I do not feel it safe enough to send any. You must realize how dangerous it would be if someone intercepted the parcel and tampered with it. I am only thinking of your safety._

_Though I hate to ask it of you, H-, I would like you to keep track of everything that happens in these dreams. Any detail may prove to be important. Also, I must ask that you send responses sparingly. Dangerous times are upon us, and our enemies will use anything they can get their hands on against us._

_Stay safe and be careful, H-._

_With regards,_

_A. D._

 

Harry stared at the writing in stunned disbelief.

Dumbledore thought that his nightmares were somehow important. He thought that they, somehow, were more than tormented recollections of that night. An odd choking noise forced itself out of his throat. That didn’t make any sense! Harry had already told him everything that happened—Cedric, Pettigrew, the cauldron—everything that he remembered.

As far as it being too dangerous, couldn’t he just send someone with it? Mr. Weasley had been to Privet Drive before, Harry didn’t think he’d mind stopping by for a few minutes. But no, that was too easy, wasn’t it? Something like hatred coiled in Harry’s gut. What meaning was there in Harry being forced to relive the Third Task every night? What was the point?

He slammed the letter onto his desk and spun away, unable to continue looking at it. He clenched his teeth, ignoring the ache of his jaw. Pacing the length of his room like a caged wolf, Harry tried to force down his frustration. Getting angry wouldn’t help when there wasn’t anything he could do. Not directly anyway. He stopped, twisting his head to look over his shoulder at Dumbledore’s letter.

 _Send responses sparingly_ , he had said. That sounded rather like blanket permission not to respond at all, since every letter was a rephrasing of the same message. They would be angry, really angry—but then so was Harry. Harry had asked Hermione and Ron to keep this a secret, and what do they do? They go off and do exactly what he asked them not to do. The lot of them could stew for a while.

Decision made, he threw himself onto his ratty bed. He lay there for a long time trying to force his muscles to relax. Though he was loathed to do it, Harry desperately needed sleep. He was running on empty, even just an hour of uninterrupted sleep would do him worlds of good. Maybe tonight he would be exhausted enough not to dream. He pushed himself back to his feet to strip down to his boxers but paused when he heard heavy footsteps stomping up the stairs.

The door was thrown open and there stood his uncle, red-faced and jaw trembling with rage. The large man took a threatening step into the room. Harry kept still. Uncle Vernon’s jaw worked soundlessly for several moments before he collected himself enough to start his tirade.

“The china!” he bellowed. “Your aunt’s fine china, shattered! You _ruined it_.”

“What? I haven’t been anywhere near—”

“Then _why_ are three plates shattered and several of the serving ware beyond repair when they weren’t five minutes ago? Answer me, boy!”

“I don’t know,” Harry said snappishly, “maybe Dudley did it.”

Uncle Vernon howled with rage, and before either of them realized what was happening, his fist caught Harry’s cheek in a harsh blow. It was a long time before either of them moved. Vernon’s face had drained of color and he stared uncomprehendingly at the growing red mark on his nephew’s face. Harry stared back.

“I—I didn’t—” The man tried but couldn’t force out anything beyond those words. He took one last look at where he’d struck the boy, and then fled.

Harry hurried forward to slam the door shut then he shoved his desk chair under the doorknob. Unbridled, his hand rose to cup his cheek. This was the first time his uncle had hit him. Vernon had threatened to do so before, of course, but he had never followed through. Harry didn’t know what to think. The only good thing was that his uncle had seemed just as shocked and horrified about it as he was.

He needed to sleep. He’d sleep and in the morning, things would have returned to normal. Harry forced himself to believe this as he quickly stripped out of his clothes and slipped under his duvet. His glasses were nearly off when he remembered the Gringotts letter. Shoving them back on, he sat up and grabbed the letter.

It was oddly heavy and something coin-like rolled from end to end when he turned it over. Shrugging, he opened it and dumped the contents into his lap. The object tuned out to be a disk of wood embossed with the Gringotts crest. Harry picked up sheet of parchment, and began to read.

 

_To H. J. Potter,_

_We of Gringotts congratulate you on your recent victory in the Triwizard Tournament, and wish to discuss the impact this event has on your estates._

_Enclosed you will find a portkey that will transport you to the London branch at 13:00 on 31 of July. Be aware that this portkey is limited to one use for one person, and attempts to defile or misuse it will result in a 500 galleon fine._

_Good day,_

_Gringotts, London branch_

 

What? How could the tournament have affected his account? Harry had already gotten his winnings and given the money to the twins. Nothing else had been promised other than ‘eternal glory.’

Oh well, he was running low on supplies anyway. He could use the trip to do some shopping. His glasses were tossed carelessly onto his desk.

But it wouldn’t leave him alone. Why were the goblins contacting him now instead of just after the tournament had ended? What could they be talking about? Questions swirled relentlessly in his head, multiply and feeding on each other until a dull ache formed behind his eyes. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his palms against them.

Why was this bothering him so much?

The night crept slowly onward until finally, around midnight Harry drifted into sleep.

 

* * *

 

In London, Tom Marvolo Riddle turned a similar letter over in his hands and cursed his grandfather’s stupidity and arrogance.

_“What troubles you so?”_

Nagini slithered up his stomach to coil around his shoulders, flicking her tongue out to scent the air. She was a cool weight that offered a bit of relief from the heat. The weather was unusually hot this summer, and the tiny window of his room at the boarding house didn’t allow for much airflow. It didn’t help that the ceiling fan was broken again.

“A summons from Gringotts.” Frowning, Tom set the letter aside. He leaned against the constrictor’s bulk and sighed, eyes slipping shut. A low, throbbing pressured started building up behind his eyes. He should get up and take a potion for it, but Tom didn’t want to move.

 _“The hoard place?”_ Her tongue flicked over his cheek. _“What do they want?”_

“It seems granddaddy,” he sneered, “left a mess behind, and I’m the one who has to deal with it.” He scratched Nagini under her chin.

The missive hadn’t given him much detail, only the vague statement that something had changed with the Gaunt estate over the past year and his presence was required to finalize it. An odd occurrence—and a worrying one, if Potter and Dumbledore were telling the truth about his grandfather’s return. But, he supposed, at least Tom didn’t have to worry about being murdered while at the bank. The goblins wouldn’t allow anything that interfered with their business.

Afterwards, on the other hand . . .

“I’ll need—”

Something slammed against the wall by his head. Tom jumped, jerking back and nearly toppling over the edge of his bed. Nagini shot up, trying to cover him with her bulk, hissing vicious threats all the while.

“Shut up, Riddle! Some of us are trying to sleep.” A bed creaked. “Fucking fag.”

Letting out a slow sigh, he dragged his hand down his face. He hated this place. If Tom could, then he would have never returned, but his mother’s vault was nearly empty and he couldn’t touch the main estate because of his father’s blood. All of his attempts to find his father had failed, so that avenue was closed, too.

He could’ve asked to stay with some of his friends, but he didn’t want to impose. Luna and her father were traveling this year, anyway, and Astoria’s family was friendly with the remains of his grandfather’s followers. He wouldn’t be the one to force her to make the choice between her ‘mudblood’ friend and her family’s safety.

Tom settled back against his pillow and stared at the ceiling.

The wizarding world was supposed to be different—a new beginning—but it was just a distorted copy of his life in the muggle world. An orphan with no prospects, no matter how intelligent he was, who might as well be a mudblood. There was no way he could claim his mother’s bloodline, not with the stigma of Marvolo Gaunt tainting it. The ‘light side’ would lynch him. The ‘dark’ would bleed him dry trying to force him to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps.

“Nagini,” he whispered, “what am I going to do?”

She rested her head over his neck, but didn’t answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be aware of:  
> A) the fanon about children conceived with love potions being incapable of love _does **not** apply_  
> B) having friends has made Tom a lot freer with his emotions  
> C) you can get married at sixteen with parental permission in the UK (i think? i remember reading that somewhere), so I've lowered the age limit a bit . . .  
> D) I'm gonna try to update every two weeks

Early on the 31st, Harry snuck out of the house. He wandered the streets, avoiding Dudley and his gang along with Mrs. Figg, who seemed oddly fixated on knowing what Harry was up to whenever he left the Dursleys’ this summer. He bought a cheap pasta salad for lunch with his remaining muggle money, and wandered some more. Finally, five minutes before his portkey would activate, Harry ducked into a side ally. He checked his pockets, making sure he had his wand and vault key, and pulled out the portkey. A cat yowled.

The portkey activated with a sharp, nauseating jerk. Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry tried not to tense as he was swept along the violent ride. After an uncomfortably long time, he arrived at Gringotts, slamming into the ground at the feet of a very unimpressed goblin.

Harry scrambled to his feet. A witch shoved passed him, muttering darkly about filthy mudbloods, and into the throng of people choking the lobby of the bank. The noise was deafening.

“Mr. Potter,” the goblin drawled, “this way.” Turning sharply on their heel, the goblin headed toward a large, reddish door guarded by two other goblins wearing dark armor and wielding halberds. The guards gave Harry suspicious glares but bowed him and his escort through the door. The lobby’s clamor cut off abruptly.

Beyond the door was a long corridor, lined with doors of various sizes, color, and materials. His escort walked past nearly three-quarters of them before stopping in front of a dark wooden door decorated with reliefs of weapons. Knocking sharply, the goblin stepped aside and gave Harry an expectant stare. Swallowing, Harry opened the door and stepped inside.

Inside was fairly normal wizarding office, aside from the large war axe and great shield hanging on the wall behind the desk. Sitting behind the desk was another goblin. This one was somehow sharper and grimmer than the others, with silver and ruby piercings running the curve of their ears and a bright, bloody lacquer covering their nails. This, Harry supposed, was his account manager.

The goblin bared their teeth in what might have been a smile.

“Mr. Potter, please, have a seat." The goblin’s voice lacked the gravely edge he was used to, though it was still low. With a start, Harry realized that the goblin was a woman. Harry nodded politely and sat in one of the wingback chairs in front of the desk. “We are awaiting another client. He should be here soon.”

Someone knocked.

Harry turned in his seat, and blinked in surprise at the person who entered. It was a boy his age, thin and pale as though he’d spent his summer in a windowless room pouring over books and forgetting to eat. His hair was dark and cut choppily around his ears. Harry was sure he’d seen the boy before, at Hogwarts, but he couldn’t remember his name. The boy gave Harry’s account manager a small bow before sitting in the remaining wingback.

“Now that we’re all here, let us begin.” The goblin bared her teeth again. “I am Redax, overseer of the Potter estate.”

The other boy frowned, but said nothing.

“Now, Mr. Potter, as per the Triwizard Tournament bylaws, you have been emancipated—”

“Wait, what?”

Redax sighed. “The bylaws state in article five, section two, that any participate not yet of age who enters and performs adequately—victory in your case, Mr. Potter,” her approving grin was knife sharp, “are to be emancipated upon conclusion of the tournament, as they have shown themselves to be equal to their senior peers in terms of ‘skill’ and ‘crisis management.’” She sneered, nodding in agreement with the other boy’s derisive snort. “An oversight of the Ministry’s to leave this in, I’m sure. Perhaps if they had taken additional measures it wouldn’t have mattered. _But_ their failure works in your favor, Mr. Potter.”

A lacquered box, just big enough to hold a ring, was pushed towards him.

“Your emancipation makes you the Lord of House Potter.” She clasped her hands together, smiling at Harry with bloody anticipation. “I look forward to seeing how your fortune grows.”

Unnerved by the promise in her grin, Harry slowly reached out to pick up the box. It was heavier than he expected. The only adornments were its golden lock and a flat pale stone set into the lid, veined with lines that shimmered like a rainbow when the light hit them just right.

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw the other boy lean forward to get a closer look.

With shaking hands, he opened the ring box. Tucked between two cushions of pale fabric was a simple ring. A plain gold band holding a dark red gem that was square and flat, with what Harry assumed was the Potter coat of arms carved into it. He swallowed, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. This had been his father’s once. Now, it was his.

The other boy sank back into his chair with a low, frustrated hiss.

“Congratulations,” the other boy said, flatly.

Harry stared at him.

The boy stared back, slouching in his chair with his elbow propped on the armrest and his chin supported by his hand. His expression was unnervingly blank—empty almost—but to Harry, he just looked exhausted. Even the deep violet of his eyes seemed grayed and dulled. The boy tilted his head to look at the goblin across from them.

“As heartwarming as this is, Madam Redax, why am I here?”

Harry hurried to shove the ring onto his finger, straightening up.

“We’re getting to that.” Redax steeped her fingers. “As Lord Potter, you are entitled to act on certain rights, such as the Right of Conquest—”

The boy swore. “That _son of a bitch_ —”

“Mr. Riddle—”

He leaned forward, intent and angry, with a bloody gleam in his eyes. “Is _this_ the reason my mother’s things are gone?” Magic cackled in the air. “Is it?”

“There was no one to collect until this summer . . . legally.” Redax pursed her lips. “Regardless, they would not have been collected as spoils as Merope Riddle’s vault is not part of the Gaunt estate. Are you implying that there’s been a theft?” Something in her voice suggested that it better not be the case.

Settling back into his seat, Riddle smiled. It was a demure but frigidly cold expression that looked more like a declaration of war than a shift of muscles had any right to. Tension built as the two stared each other down.

“If it wasn’t someone collecting on behalf of House Potter, then it must have been,” he said sweetly. “Of course, _now that Gringotts has acknowledged the theft_ , I’m certain things will sort themselves out . . . don’t you think?” Riddle tilted his head and something mocking entered his smile. A heavy pressure, tangible in the way magic rarely was, settled over them.

“Yes,” Redax managed stiffly, “of course.”

Swallowing, Harry coughed.

“Uh, what do you mean by ‘Right of Conquest?’”

“It means exactly as it sounds,” said Riddle, “because you defeated my grandfather, however temporarily, you have the right to claim his things. Since he is the Head of the family, well, that’s essentially everything owned by the Gaunts.” He was surprisingly indifferent about something that could potentially render him homeless and destitute.

Harry nodded slowly. “Alright . . . wait.” His eyes widened as he gawped at Riddle. “ _Marvolo Gaunt_ is your _grandfather_?”

“Unfortunately.” Riddle’s expression soured. “This still doesn’t explain why you needed me here, Madam.”

“Because of the war, the Gaunt vaults are empty,” she began but was cut off when Riddle started laughing.

It began low and soft, building until it rang through the room. Head thrown back and shoulders shaking, he cackled as if he’d never heard anything funnier. There was an edge of hysteria to the laughter that made Harry cringe. It didn’t look like there was any lost love between him and the Gaunts. Riddle’s mirth trailed off into quiet giggles.

“Even if—the bastard would have nothing . . .” Another giggle. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

Redax coughed.

“In addition, House Gaunt owes House Potter reparations for causing its near destruction. However, given that there isn’t anything _to_ collect, aside from . . .” The goblin opened her mouth to continue but, after a few seconds, closed it again. She very carefully didn’t look in Riddle’s direction.

A cold, leaden feeling started to form in Harry’s stomach.

She took a slow, measured breath. “The Gaunts have a particular family bylaw that says any non-Pureblood family member can be used by the Head of the family to settle a debt,” here Redax paused again, looking distinctly uncomfortable, “as payment.”

“No,” Harry whispered.

Beside him Riddle stiffened, barely breathing. Any amusement remaining died instantly.

She grimaced, shuffling papers around her desk. Dread curled in his stomach as Harry realized there was more. But whatever additional bad news she had was cut off by a sharp knock. Another goblin entered the room, scowling darkly and carrying a scrap of parchment in their hand. The goblin snapped out something in gobbledegook and shoved the parchment into Harry’s hands before leaving. Redax glowered.

“Well?” she asked. “What does it say?”

Harry opened it. Familiar looping script stared back at him.

“It’s from Dumbledore. He wants me to stay where I am.”

“The owl that delivered it had a tracking charm on it. He’s probably on his way here.” Redax looked frustrated.

Riddle hummed and dragged a hand down his face. “And we’re not done yet,” he sighed heavily.

“We’ll head to the Irish branch.” She stood but waved them back into their chairs when they moved to follow. “No, don’t get up—there’s no point.”

Beside the door was a dial, but instead of numbers it had bars of color surrounding it. Redax turned the knob, leaving the orange section, and went passed the silvery blue bar to the bright green section. The dial whistled and glowed while the door’s handle twisted into a new shape. They settled with a final, shrill whistle. Satisfied, Redax returned to her seat.

“Welcome to Ireland, gentlemen,” she said. “Now back to business.

“As Mr. Riddle is the only remaining noncriminal member of House Gaunt, the debt falls to him. However, there is an additional factor that must be taken into account.” There was _more_? “In the year following Marvolo Gaunt’s apparent death, the Ministry enacted a law to help revitalize the population.”

Riddle made a choking sound, and looked vaguely ill. Harry eyed him with concern.

“Since you are both members of dying bloodlines, this law applies and combined with the Gaunt bylaw . . .”

“But what’s the law?” Harry asked. Riddle and Redax stared at him, aghast. “I grew up in the muggle world—I _don’t know_ what law you’re talking about.”

Riddle stumbled to explain, still looking like he’d taken a blow to the head. “Its . . . they expect us to—for _me_ to—I . . . I—” His jaw floundered but no noise escaped. Finally, Redax took pity on him.

“Children. They expect you to have children. Together.”

“But we’re both . . . ?”

“There are spells and potions,” was Riddle’s muffled answer. His face was buried in his hands. “Sex changing potions, fertility charms, artificial wombs, et cetera.” His voice was monotone save for a dull echo of terror.

Alarmed, Harry watched him sit there, hunched over and face hidden, taking slow measure breaths on some internal count. He vaguely recalled Hermione telling him about a third year who’d worked themselves into a panic during the winter holiday and again at Easter. He wondered if this had been Riddle. He edged closer to the other boy.

“Are you okay?”

“Perfectly fine. Completely and utterly— _don’t fucking touch me!_ ”

The boy jerked back, snarling, and glared at him. Harry let his hand drop. An uneasy silence descended on the office.

“Redax?” He kept his eyes locked with Riddle’s. “Is there any way to get out of this?” Something in Riddle’s expression twisted, as if he didn’t know if he was angry or not.

“No.”

Harry swallowed.

“Can you give us a minute alone?”

The goblin rose from her desk, eyeing them with distant sympathy. “I’ll have tea sent in shortly.” She left, closing the door quietly and leaving them alone in the tense atmosphere.

They sat there for a while, with Harry unsure of what to say and Riddle on the verge of another panic attack. Wringing his hands, Harry wracked his brain for something to say that wouldn’t make things worse, but his thoughts kept circling round and round, unable to comprehend how things had ended up like this. They were teenagers—still kids honestly—surely the Ministry wouldn’t expected them to go through with this right away? They still had school, and Gaunt was out there somewhere, plotting Harry’s death along with whoever got in the way. He didn’t think the dark lord would make an exception for his grandson.

“Uh,” Harry managed, “what kind of timescale are we looking at here?”

Blinking, Riddle straightened. “I don’t know.”

“ _So_ , this might not become a real problem until, like, ten years from now, right?” Merlin, he hoped so.

“Have you seen the Daily Prophet lately? The Ministry’s going to do everything they can to control your life.”

That was new—why hadn’t anyone mentioned that in their letters? Did they think he’d have run off and done something stupid if he’d known? Hermione and Ron knew him better than that, so why—

He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth and tried to sink into the state of mind that gotten him out of all the deadly situations he’d fallen into. No way out and they couldn’t drag their feet. So, how were they going to deal with this? Harry carded his fingers through his hair, making clumps of it stick up in even odder directions. This whole thing was like one of Aunt Petunia’s trashy romance novels.

“Oh,” he said, turning that thought over in his mind. “ _Oh._ ”

Riddle made a questioning noise.

“Let’s get married.”

“ _What?_ ” He looked horrified again.

“It makes perfect sense—”

“No it doesn’t!”

“We’ll be complying with the conquest thing and that stupid law, but we won’t have to follow through right away since the Ministry can’t actually force people to have babies. Unless they can?” Riddle shook his head slowly, eyes wide and glassy. “So, it’s perfect! Let’s get married.”

Blinking and still shaking his head, Riddle picked over Harry’s idea, muttering to himself and twisting his mouth this way and that. He paused, eyed Harry with mild distaste, and got up to start pacing the room. This continued for a long time. Redax’s promised tea appeared, and still he paced, back and forth, lost in his own thoughts. Frowning, Harry watched him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Riddle sneered, “I’m just having an existential crisis over the fact that despite my best efforts, _I’m still going to end up as a **goddamn trophy wife!**_ ” Whatever he said next was lost to Harry, as it came out in a long string of weird hisses—parseltongue.

Surprised, Harry stared. He knew that Gaunt could talk to snakes—it was part of the reason he’d used them in his mark—but Harry had never heard him do it. Even as furious as he was, the noises leaving Riddle were like long, heavy sighs with a strange curling bite to them, quiet and soft. Nothing at all like what Harry had imagined parseltongue sounding like.

Riddle pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply.

“If we do this, you have to promise me something.”

“Alright,” said Harry slowly.

The boy smiled that cold, demure smile and leaned into Harry’s space, balancing himself on the chair’s armrests. Harry swallowed, wide-eyed, and tried to ignore just how close the other boy was. This close, it was hard to dismiss how pretty Riddle was. Rich violet eyes framed by delicate, dark lashes. Most of his baby-fat had melted away to reveal fine cheekbones. There was still something soft about his features, but Harry couldn’t figure out what it was. Belatedly, he realized his hands were shaking and his pulse was going mad.

“We are going to make Marvolo Gaunt pay for this.”

Harry agreed without thinking about it. He was too rattled by his reaction. What did this mean? He still though Cho was pretty and—he shook himself. This was the worst time to be thinking about this. He’d worry about it later—or not at all. That sounded best. He nodded to himself. Harry decided then and there that he was _never_ going to tell Riddle about this. Never.

Leaning back, Riddle quirked a brow. Abruptly, he switched topics.

“Do you even know who I am?”

Harry floundered. “Uh, yes? Kind of?” He received a flat, unimpressed look. That was an unfair level of judgment, Harry thought. “ . . . Not really, no.”

“Didn’t think so.” He rocked back on his heels. “Tom Riddle, fourth year slytherin.” The corner of his mouth curled up and he stuck out his hand.

As he shook Tom’s hand, Harry tried the name out in his head. Tom. Tom Riddle. It was an oddly muggle name for someone related to Gaunt.

There was a knock at the door. It opened to reveal Redax carrying a stack of files. She eyed the two of them, raising a brow as she noticed the odd expression on Harry’s face. Smiling, Tom reclaimed his seat. He fixed himself a cup of tea and ignored the goblin’s pointed cough.

“I trust things have been settled?”

“Yeah.” Harry smiled nervously. “How do we file a marriage license?”

Whatever the goblin had been expecting, it wasn’t that. She blinked rapidly and glanced at Tom, who was still pretending to ignore the proceedings.

“Persons under the age of fifteen are unable to be married.” She paused, trying to catch Tom’s eye but failing. “If you still wish to proceed with this line of action, you’ll have to wait until the 1st of January. Now, on to more pleasant matters.”

‘Pleasant matters’ turned out to be financial reports, vault inventories, and a dizzying amount of paperwork. As Redax walked Harry through everything, Tom filled out forms detailing what he knew about the theft of his mother’s effects. Near the end, as they were going through a list of his properties, another idea came to Harry.

He picked up the dossier on the manor located on the Isle of Man. Its warding list was extensive: unplottable, anti-apparition, wards against disasters, at least fifty different kinds of anti-intruder and ill-intent wards, a magic concealment ward, _and blood wards_. Harry’s jaw ached with tension just thinking about it. Blood wards. Why was he living with the Dursleys if the Potters had properties with blood wards? It wasn’t as though he didn’t know how to take care of himself. Hell, they could have just stuck him there with a lineup of caretakers. He let out a furious breath.

He handed the file to Redax.

“How strong are the wards on this place?” Harry asked.

She glanced over it. “They’re old, but they’ve been fortified by Potter blood since their creation. Wards created today don’t compare. However, you’ll need to fully activate them with a blood ritual.”

“Well,” Harry grinned, “I know where I’m staying for the rest of summer.” He turned to the other boy. “What about you?”

Tom frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Do you want to stay at the keep? You don’t have to if you don’t want. I just figured it’d be good for us to get used to each other . . .” He trailed off.

A sudden shyness seemed to overtake the younger boy. He worried at a corner of his paperwork and kept his gaze lowered.

“I wouldn’t mind it.” He peeked at Harry from under his lashes. For some odd reason, Harry felt his cheeks heat up.

Redax coughed into her fist. “A portkey, then?” She removed a flat wooden disk from her desk and tapped it with her finger before handing it to Harry. “This will take you to just outside the wards. Proof of blood will get you through.”

Harry and Tom gathered their paperwork, bide Redax goodbye, and left the office heading toward the bank’s portkey terminal. They silently waited their turn. When the goblin manning the area waved them up, Harry gave a queasy smile and held out the portkey. Tom wrapped his hand around Harry’s, and seconds later, off they went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ignore Tom's psychopathic/sociopathic tendencies, Tom and Cho definitely fit into the same "type," I think, -- dark hair, dark eyes, smart, and Better Than You.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminders:  
> A) Dumbledore is machiavellian as all hell, even in canon. Especially in canon.  
> B) there was something else but i can't remember what it is

The portkey deposited them at the far end of an overgrown garden, just outside of a crumbling stone wall. Moss and vines covered most of the barrier, growing out of cracks and holes. The rusted gate was wedged shut by an old battle axe. Beyond the wall was a weathered keep that was missing sections of its roof and outer walls. Ruins of other buildings were scattered around the property.

Tom laughed, because the other option was to start swearing.

“Lovely.”

“At least we won’t be bored.”

“Hm—I don’t know, a roof might be the better deal.” They shared a grin. “But really,” Tom said, picking at a bit of moss, “what the hell happened?”

Potter looked like he wondered the same.

The place was a disaster. They’d be spending the rest of summer trying to fix it up, and Tom seriously doubted they would be anywhere near finished by September. Not without help, anyway—maybe not even then! He sighed. Well, it would distract him from the god-awful mess he’d found himself in.

If Marvolo Gaunt had had the decency _to stay dead_ , this might never have come up . . .

Potter walked up to the gate and started trying to dislodge the axe. It barely moved even though there was nothing holding it in place. He tried to jimmy it out of the latch, but it stubbornly held.

Frowning, Tom moved closer.

“I don’t think you’re going to move it that way.” But he’d spoken too late.

Potter tried wrenching the axe upward as hard as he could. It remained in place, but one of his hands slipped, catching on the blade and leaving a gash on his palm. Swearing, Potter jerked back, clutching the bleeding limb.

The bloodied axe glowed. Rust flake off the gate, exposing gleaming bronze ivy twisting around spiraled bars. Moss clumps withered into dust, and the holes they revealed sealed themselves. Vines slithered back over the wall.

Tom gazed hopefully at the keep itself but it remained stubbornly dilapidated. Even the other buildings remained ruins, though perhaps at bit less overgrown. This was _not_ how his rags-to-riches story was meant to go. He spared a moment to mourn what could have been, before squaring his shoulders and stepping up to stand next to Potter. The gryffindor was gawping like an idiot.

Tom was sure this was going to kill him. He was going to die. Probably from second-hand embarrassment or—Merlin forbid— _as collateral damage_.

Maybe this was all just a terrible nightmare? Soon he would wake up in his tiny, over-priced room at the boarding house, with Nagini demanding they go hunting for rabbits or some such— _fuck_ , Nagini. He’d left her at the house, along with everything else he owned! If he didn’t get his things, the bitch running the place would burn them.

“Goddamn it.”

Potter swung around to stare at him.

“We don’t have any supplies,” he pointed out flatly, still cursing internally. “And how are we getting back to England?”

Potter looked horrified.

“Hedwig!” He spun around on his heels to face the craggy cliffs overlooking the sea, looking as if he thought he could run all the way back to London. “I left her at the Dursleys’— _my uncle is going to kill her_!”

The crack of apparition had them both drawing their wands and aiming at the space between the intruder’s eyes. Only, they were off by several feet. Instead of the adult wizard they had expected, it was an old house-elf wearing a simple brown robe. The elf wrung its leathery hands and wavered between them.

“Young Master Harry?” the elf muttered in a wheezy, little voice. “But there be two. Oh dear, oh dear. Which be Young Master Harry and which be Young Master’s guest?” He tugged on his ears and wailed, loudly. “ _Oh_ , Scrooge doesn’t know, Scrooge can’t _tell_! Bad elf, Scrooge be. Bad, bad elf.” The elf scooped up a rock and proceeded to try braining himself.

Tom stared. What the fuck was wrong with him? The Hogwarts elves never behaved like this, or at least, never where students could see it.

Seconds after the first braining attempt, Potter dove at the elf and wrestled the rock away from him. The elf wailed again.

“Scrooge,” Potter hollered over the elf, “I’m ordering you to stop hurting yourself _and calm down_!”

The racket ceased immediately, creating a ringing silence. Potter took a deep, slow breath and, as if he thought the elf might ignore the order, slowly released Scrooge. Sniffling nosily, Scrooge gazed at the gryffindor with wet eyes and a trembling jaw.

_Don’t cry,_ Tom thought with a grimace, _don’t do it. Just don’t._

Awkwardly, Potter patted his shoulder which did nothing to starve off the potential water-works. If anything, the elf looked even more teary-eyed.

“Okay.” Potter leaned back on his heels. “Okay. Now that everyone’s calm, can you tell us what that was about?” He tried an awkward smile.

Was _this_ what Malfoy meant by ‘Saint Potter?’ A nice to everyone—but Malfoy and his irritating little gang—do-gooder who probably got taken advantage of regularly . . . Well, Tom could curtail that last bit. He was selfish and pragmatic enough for it. He’d just have to expand his scope to include Potter. Hopefully, this wouldn’t prove to be too difficult.

The house-elf wrung his hands.

“Master James sent Scrooge away for being a bad elf, he did, when Young Master Harry was just a babe.”

Potter looked stricken by that, so Tom braced a hand on his shoulder and kneeled next to him. He made his expression soften, hiding his discomfort, and asked, “Why would he do that?”

Miserably, the elf answered, “Scrooge caught Headmaster disturbing Young Master Harry, he did, and threw Headmaster out, like a good elf. But Master James didn’t like that and Scrooge was sent away.” He sniffled again, mawkish. “Then Master James and Mistress Lily died, _and Scrooge couldn’t find Young Master Harry and—_ ”

“Hey, hey, calm down. It wasn’t your fault,” Potter hurried to reassure Scrooge. “Dumbledore set up a blood ward, that’s why you couldn’t find me.”

Slowly, the house-elf settled again.

Something uneasy coiled in Tom’s gut. A blood ward keeping out a loyal family elf? That . . . didn’t sound right. Family elves were bound by blood and magic. A blood ward would have been impossible to ignore—a shinning beacon leading straight to Potter’s location. Nervous, he looked around and shivered. They were still outside of the keep’s wards.

“Why don’t we head inside?” Tom stood, pulling Potter up with him, and made toward the gate.

The house-elf jumped ahead of them, giving Tom a suspicious yet hopeful look, before snapping brittle fingers to banish the battle axe. The trio walked through the gate as though it wasn’t there. The weight of old wards was a welcome relief. If they were careful, no one would find them. Not Dumbledore with his strange fixation on Potter, and not Tom’s grandfather or his Death Eaters.

The keep’s structural integrity wasn’t as bad as Tom had thought it was. Yes, parts of the roof had caved in, but the ruined walls were freestanding, boxing in a courtyard, and not part of the keep itself. Nearly all of the windows were still intact. The flooring of the first story was stone, as was the staircase leading to the upper stories. On the other hand, the furnishings looked to be beyond repair. Well, that was fine. The sheer amount of red and gold was making him nauseous anyway.

The house-elf led them to the back of the keep.

“Young Master and guest be staying in the library for now. Scrooge be trying to keep things clean but there not be enough magic. Now that Young Master be here, things be changing.” He sounded eager and pleased by this. At a set of French doors, the elf snapped his fingers and bowed. With a groan, the doors pushed themselves open.

“Oh,” Tom breathed as he stepped into the room, Potter close at his heels.

Compared to the rest of the keep, the library was in beautiful condition. The shelves were in perfect order, along with the wood flooring and the spiral staircase that connected the room’s three levels. On the back wall, tall stained-glass windows lit the three-story room. The railing on the upper stories was a mix of bronze and dark wood, wrapping around the room like a horseshoe to leave the windows open. Plush chairs and couches were scattered about the room in groups, circling low tables.

Tom sighed happily. He could forgive the sorry state of the rest of the property for this room alone. Slowly, he turned on his heel, drinking in everything. Tom could forgive a lot of things for this library.

Behind him, Harry snorted. Apparently, he’d said that out loud.

“At least I know you and Hermione will get along.”

“Only Granger? What about the Weasleys?” He crossed to the nearest shelf to run a finger along it, taking stock of the books. Gleefully, Tom realized he’d _never heard of_ —let alone read—most of them.

Behind him, there was an awkward shuffle as Potter followed him.

“Ron’s weird about slytherins.”

“And you’re not.”

Wait. His finger froze over a thick book bound in pale leather. Was that a first edition _Root: A Guide and Companion to Low Magic_? He’d thought all of those had been burned in the ‘dark’ magic purge of 1624!

“The only ones I actually hate are Malfoy, Snape, and your grandfather.” Potter hesitated. “No offense.”

“I’d be worried if you didn’t.” Tom pulled out _Root_ and flipped it open. “He did try to murder you, after all.” He let himself get lost in the text, only vaguely aware of Potter and his elf talking behind him.

 

_In the early days of our young and ambitious people, trees were thought of as the symbol of magic’s structure. The sprawling canopy of foliage was the full range of our focused, internal magic which rose most plentifully in the empowered bloodlines. Light, dark, grey—these were merely branches on the great tree of magic. This focused power is the glorious ancestor of the magic taught in our schools today._

_But there is another type of magic, one which has largely been forgotten. The true scope of our magic has been heavily limited to incantations_ _and_ _wandwork, with only potions allowed to freely break this mold without derision. For you see, below the ground grows the tree’s roots and, just like that tree, so too does our magic have roots. This magic has no incantations or wand movement. It knows only the deep power of the earth and the tremendous wishes of the human heart. It does not care how powerful a witch’s core is, only how strong and true her will is._

_It is by this magic that we must draw the line between muggle and witch, squib and wizard lest we suffocate the magic of our bloodlines completely. For it was the study and practice of low magic, as it was once called, that eventually gave rise to the empowered bloodlines._

 

Tom was startled out of his reverie when a hand dropped on his shoulder. He jerked and nearly elbowed Potter in the gut. Holding his hands up, the gryffindor backed up.

“Sorry. Sorry.”

Half turning away, Tom raised the book defensively in front of him.

“What do you want?”

“Scrooge is going to pop out and get our things, so he needs to know where you were staying.” He waited for Tom to nod slowly and give the elf the information, along with a warning about Nagini. “Also, what do you want for dinner?”

“I don’t care.” He was already beginning to fall into the text again.

Potter sighed heavily.

“Books are not a source of nutrition. You have to eat.”

He might have responded but the book was so interesting, he didn’t care if he had or not.

“Do I have to tie you to a chair and force-feed you? I’ve done it to Hermione, I’ll do it to you, I don’t care.”

This was why he hated gryffindors—none of them appreciated a good research binge.

 

* * *

 

In the end, no one got tied up.

Scrooge returned with food, their trunks, Hedwig’s cage—she’d wanted to fly, Scrooge reported when Potter asked—and Nagini. As soon as she was free from the elf’s magic, she circled Tom, scenting the air for threats and checking him for injuries as she climbed up him to drape herself over his shoulders.

_“Why have we changed nests?”_ she wanted to know. _“Is this one better?”_

“Nagini—”

_“The other was dangerous, yes, but we were the strongest predators.”_ Her tongue tickled his nose. _“Is there enough prey here?”_

Potter stepped closer, wary curiosity on his face. Nagini wound another loop around Tom’s shoulders to stare at the other boy.

_“Another nest-mate?”_

_“I suppose,”_ Tom said.

He watched Potter’s expression closely as wariness slowly bleed away and fascination took its place. This was probably Potter’s first time hearing parseltongue that didn’t involve the threat of immediate death if he wasn’t careful. Interest was a good reaction, especially when the other options were disgust and fear. He got enough of that from Malfoy and his cronies, thank you. He didn’t need it in his own ‘home.’

_“We’ve been invited to stay here for the rest of summer.”_

Nagini affected a solemn nod. _“His magic tastes strong. Will you let this one mount you?”_

Tom blinked.

“What?” An awful heat crawled up his neck and over his cheeks. He couldn’t meet Potter’s eyes anymore.

_“He has let us into his nest. That means he hopes to mate, yes?”_

“What’s she saying—Tom?”

A strangled, choking squeak escaped him. “I—I—”

“Tom, are you okay?”

Potter inched closer, reaching a hand out as if he was worried Tom would faint. Tom felt woozy enough for it to be a concern. Was the room swaying? No. He blinked, trying to focus. That was him. The drone of white noise filled his head.

“Maybe you should sit down?”

A trickle of anger ate through the haze. No, he didn’t want to sit down. Tom didn’t want to be here, the scapegoat for someone who, by all rights, should be _dead_ —didn’t want to give up his future. He still let Potter take hold of his elbow, gentle like he thought Tom would break under his hand. He still let Potter led him to the one of the sitting areas where their dinner sat waiting. Tom let Potter settle him on one of the loveseats.

He wasn’t stupid, after all. In the end, Potter had just as much control over this mess as Tom did. Alienating him would just make things worse. And, if nothing else, as least Tom wasn’t stuck with _Malfoy_. Though Tom would make an excellent black widow, he wasn’t interested in risking going to prison because of that twat.

His hands shook as he accepted the cup of tea Potter handed him.

Fueling his anger and internally bitching about things were safe thoughts. Tom didn’t want to really think about why he was here, or what might eventually be required of him. After all, there were far, _far_ too many things that could go wrong with pregnancies, even with magic involved. Complications while carrying to term. Complications during the birth itself. Complications while recovering from the birth—like what had happened with Tom’s mother. Just _thinking_ about what could go wrong made his heart stutter as he broke into a cold sweat.

_“Where is the threat? I shall kill it.”_ Scales pressed against the tender skin of his throat as Nagini tried to defend vulnerable areas from an enemy she couldn’t find. _“We will feast on its corpse.”_

“Tom?”

And he’d thought his reaction had been bad when Astoria mentioned wanting children one day.

He shook his head. Eyes closed, Tom tried to center himself. If everything went well, it would be _years_ before children—and pregnancy—came up again. He had nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing.

He wanted to vomit.

Tom opened his eyes and took a sip of tea instead. His hands were still shaking and his chest felt like it was full of cement, but—he could fall apart later, when Potter wasn’t around to see it. Nagini tightened her hold around his shoulders.

“I’m fine.” The lie was bitter and clumsy on his tongue.

“. . . Alright.” Potter didn’t look convinced but he was willing to let it go.

In awkward silence, they picked through their dinner—salad and sandwiches with a small cup of soup. Tom knew he should be trying to make Potter like him, but he was tired. The day’s constant thrum of low panic had worn through his reserves, and he just wanted to curl up and sleep for awhile. His eyelids itched, a sign that he’d been awake for too long—or he was going to cry. Tom glared into his soup cup. Lack of sleep, he told himself.

Potter shifted. One of his knees knocked against Tom’s.

“So . . .” Potter said. He shifted again. “How did you get Nagini?”

“She showed up and refused to leave.”

“That’s it?”

Tom shrugged.

“It happens a lot.” He paused, turned to the other boy, and smiled winningly. “I hope you’re not afraid of snakes! Because they’re going to show up, whether you want them to or not. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually, they will.” That came out a bit too much like a threat. Oh, well.

Eyes wide, Potter straightened up from his slouch.

“What, really?” He leaned closer. “Even at Hogwarts?”

“Even at Hogwarts.” Tom sipped at his tea, watching.

“Huh.” Potter blinked, sitting back. “I’d have thought they wouldn’t go that far north, considering.”

“It’s a pain in winter,” he agreed. “It’s always ‘share your warmth, speaker’ and ‘feed me, speaker.’ ‘Find a better nest, speaker.’” He sighed. It was always in the middle of the night, too. Some days, being able to speak parseltongue was more trouble than it was worth.

“I released a boa constrictor from the zoo once.”

It was Tom’s turn for a wide-eyed stare.

Potter flushed.

“Accidentally. With magic.” His cheeks darkened. “I was—startled by something and, uh, vanished the glass. It was before I knew I was a wizard, so.” Hopelessly, he shrugged.

“You—” Tom wasn’t going to touch the implications of Potter needing to be told he was a wizard. Not now, anyway. “You vanished something with accidental magic?”

“Yes?” Potter didn’t quite shrink in on himself, but the unhappy twist of his mouth said he wanted to. Not surprising, really, considering how often their classmates made a spectacle of anything he did that they didn’t approve of. Most accidental magic was levitating things, or changing their color. Vanishing something— “Is that rare?”

“According to my roommates, it is.” He shrugged, deliberately careless. “I’ve done it a few times, though never on the scale of a constrictor’s tank.” Though, now that he thought about it, this sounded familiar . . . “When did you say this was?”

“It was about a month before I got my letter, so in ’91.”

“In early June.”

“That’s right . . .”

Tom laughed.

“That was Nagini.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder at the sound of her name.

_“That was this one?”_ She scented the air. _“Yes, I remember now. Share your tongue with him.”_

Some days, Tom wished she understood tact.

_“No.”_

_“I wish to speak with him.”_

_“No, Nagini.”_ He hesitated. _“Not yet.”_

He risked a glance at Potter. He didn’t look offended by them talking in a language he couldn’t understand. When Potter realized Tom was looking at him, he grinned shyly.

“I guess she never made it to Brazil.”


End file.
